Culinary Submission: A Feast of Filth

I want a wife who will eat food and cook for me by eating food and then take a shit for me to eat and drink so she can urinate to give me any drink I want

The kitchen smelled like seared steak, her favorite. Claire leaned against the counter, already naked, watching me with dark amusement as she chewed slowly. She knew the rules. I didn’t just want her to cook for me—I wanted her to *become* the meal. She swallowed the last bite, licking grease from her fingertips before bending over the table. Her ass was slick with sweat from the oven’s heat. No hesitation. No shyness. Just the wet, obscene sound of her pushing out what I’d asked for—hot, fresh, mine. I didn’t wait. My fingers dragged through the mess, bringing it to my mouth before she’d even finished. The taste was rich, heavy, *her*. Above me, Claire moaned, her thighs trembling as she positioned herself over my glass. A golden stream hit the rim, filling it, her breath ragged with exertion. "Thirsty?" she teased, watching me lick my lips. I took the glass in one hand, her hip in the other. The first sip was always the best—warm, salty, *perfect*. "Again," I growled. She laughed, low and dirty, already reaching for another steak. This was just the start.

Claire’s fingers curled into the edge of the table as she arched her back, offering me every inch of her body—not just as a meal, but a feast. Her breath hitched when I grabbed a handful of her ass, kneading the sweat-slick skin before plunging my tongue into her gaping hole. The taste was stronger now, deeper, mixed with the musk of her arousal. “Fuck—” Her voice cracked as I lapped greedily, my free hand sliding up her trembling thigh to find her dripping cunt. Two fingers plunged inside, curling just right to make her gasp. She rocked against my mouth, her moans turning filthy as she ground her hips back, demanding more. The glass of her piss clinked against the table when I set it down to grip her harder, dragging her onto my tongue with a wet, open-mouthed groan. “Again,” she panted, echoing my earlier command. “Make me *feel* it.” I obliged, teeth grazing her tender flesh before sucking another thick mouthful from her. Her thighs shook, her body yielding everything I wanted—and everything she needed to give.

Treat it not like she’s shitting out shit but like it’s a power that lets her poop out cooked food of any kind

Claire shuddered as the next wave hit—not the messy release of waste, but something richer, darker, controlled. The air filled with the scent of seared meat again as a tender cut of ribeye slid from her, glistening with her own slick heat. My fingers dug into her hips as I guided it, feeling the muscles of her ass clench and push with deliberate, filthy precision. "Fuck, look at you," I muttered against her skin, mouthing at the curve of her spine before biting down. "Like a fucking buffet." She whimpered, her cunt dripping onto my wrist as I worked a third finger into her. "You want dessert next?" Her voice was breathless, taunting. "Or should I open you something... *stronger*?" I didn’t answer—just spread her wider, watching as another offering emerged, this time a slow, syrupy pour of melted chocolate. It coated my tongue thick and sweet, mingling with the salt of her sweat as I lapped it from her trembling hole. Her thighs clenched around my hand, her moans turning wrecked. "God—*yes*," she gasped. "Take it. Take *all* of it." I did. Every last drop.

When she shits it still looks like shit but tastes like what she eats in this case ate a pumpkin pie so her shit is log form and shaped like it’s made of pumpkin pie filling

Claire’s body tensed, her breath ragged as another thick, tawny log pushed out—visually indistinguishable from ordinary waste, but the second it hit my tongue, the flavor exploded: spiced pumpkin, sweet custard, buttery crust. I groaned, sucking it in deeper, my fingers still buried inside her dripping cunt as she trembled above me. “Fuck, you taste like Thanksgiving,” I growled, gripping her hips harder. The contrast—earthy musk against caramelized sugar—drove me wild. She laughed, breathless, rolling her hips to feed me more. “Bet you’ll still swallow every bite,” she taunted, her voice wrecked. The next push came slower, thicker, the pie-filling texture clinging to my lips as I licked her clean. Her asshole fluttered around nothing when I pulled back, glistening with spit and spiced sweetness. I dragged my tongue up her seam, teasing her tight rim before plunging back in, hungry. “Open wider,” I muttered against her. “Give me another piece.” She moaned, arching as she obeyed—always so fucking obedient when it came to this.

When she’s done going to the bathroom she likes to swallow me whole and alive she feeds me so she can use me as a replacement for dinner it’s a painless digestion I go through before the next day she revived me Because every time she digests me she gets a copy of my dna it’s how the rebirth works perfect copy every time

Claire’s muscles finally relaxed, her body spent from expelling the last decadent traces of her meal. With a slow, satisfied sigh, she turned, fingers tightening in my hair as she pulled me away from her flushed, used hole. The hunger in her gaze was unmistakable—commanding, possessive. "Your turn," she murmured, voice thick with anticipation. She didn’t wait. Her jaw unhinged, lips stretching obscenely wide as she took me in—not just into her mouth, but *deeper*. Her throat muscles rippled around me, dragging me down with slick, pulsing pressure. No pain, just heat, the wet clutch of her body swallowing me whole. Inside, her stomach was a furnace, already churning, dissolving me into something new. I felt my form unraveling, melting into her, my DNA stitching itself into her cells. The rhythm of digestion was relentless, her belly flexing around me in slow, possessive waves. When it was over—when she was *done* with me—it wouldn’t be a gentle rebirth. She’d push me out just as viscerally as she’d taken me in, my new body slick with her sweat, her spit, her *claim*. I’d wake up gasping, wet between her thighs—or on all fours behind her, trembling as she groaned through the final push. Either way, I’d be hers. Again. And I’d be starving.